THE reader will again accompany us to the time when we find Annette and Nicholas in the hands of Graspum, who will nurture them for their increasing value.

Merciless creditors have driven Marston from that home of so many happy and hospitable associations, to seek shelter in the obscure and humble chamber of a wretched building in the outskirts of the city. Fortune can afford him but a small cot, two or three broken chairs, an ordinary deal table, a large chest, which stands near the fire-place, and a dressing-stand, for furniture. Here, obscured from the society he had so long mingled with, he spends most of his time, seldom venturing in public lest he may encounter those indomitable gentlemen who would seem to love the following misfortune into its last stage of distress. His worst enemy, however, is that source of his misfortunes he cannot disclose; over it hangs the mystery he must not solve! It enshrines him with guilt before public opinion; by it his integrity lies dead; it is that which gives to mother rumour the weapons with which to wield her keenest slanders.

Having seized Marston's real estate, Graspum had no scruples about swearing to the equity of his claim; nor were any of the creditors willing to challenge an investigation; and thus, through fear of such a formidable abettor, Marston laboured under the strongest, and perhaps the most unjust imputations. But there was no limit to Graspum's mercenary proceedings; for beyond involving Marston through Lorenzo, he had secretly purchased many claims of the creditors, and secured his money by a dexterous movement, with which he reduced the innocent children to slavery.

Reports have spread among the professedly knowing that Marston can never have made away with all his property in so few years. And the manner being so invisible, the charge becomes stronger. Thus, labouring between the pain of misfortune and the want of means to resent suspicion, his cheerless chamber is all he can now call his home. But he has two good friends left-Franconia, and the old negro Bob. Franconia has procured a municipal badge for Daddy; and, through it (disguised) he seeks and obtains work at stowing cotton on the wharfs. His earnings are small, but his soul is large, and embued with attachment for his old master, with whom he will share them. Day by day the old slave seems to share the feelings of his master,—to exhibit a solicitous concern for his comfort. Earning his dollars and twenty-five cents a day, he will return when the week has ended, full of exultation, spread out his earnings with childlike simplicity, take thirty cents a day for himself, and slip the remainder into Marston's pocket. How happy he seems, as he watches the changes of Marston's countenance, and restrains the gushing forth of his feelings!

It was on one of those nights upon which Daddy had received his earnings, that Marston sat in his cheerless chamber, crouched over the faint blaze of a few pieces of wood burning on the bricks of his narrow fire-place, contemplating the eventful scenes of the few years just passed. The more he contemplated the more it seemed like a dream; his very head wearied with the interminable maze of his difficulties. Further and further, as he contemplated, did it open to his thoughts the strange social and political mystery of that more strange institution for reducing mankind to the level of brutes. And yet, democracy, apparently honest, held such inviolable and just to its creed; which creed it would defend with a cordon of steel. The dejected gentleman sighs, rests his head on his left hand, and his elbow on the little table at his side. Without, the weather is cold and damp; an incessant rain had pattered upon the roof throughout the day, wild and murky clouds hang their dreary festoons along the heavens, and swift scudding fleeces, driven by fierce, murmuring winds, bespread the prospect with gloom that finds its way into the recesses of the heart.

"Who is worse than a slave!" sighs the rejected man, getting up and looking out of his window into the dreary recesses of the narrow lane. "If it be not a ruined planter I mistake the policy by which we govern our institution! As the slave is born a subject being, so is the planter a dependent being. We planters live in disappointment, in fear, in unhappy uncertainty; and yet we make no preparations for the result. Nay, we even content ourselves with pleasantly contemplating what may come through the eventful issue of political discord; and when it comes in earnest, we find ourselves the most hapless of unfortunates. For myself, bereft of all I had once,—even friends, I am but a forlorn object in the scale of weak mankind! No man will trust me with his confidence,—scarce one knows me but to harass me; I can give them no more, and yet I am suspected of having more. It is so, and ever will be so. Such are the phases of man's downfall, that few follow them to the facts, while rumour rules supreme over misfortune. There may be a fountain of human pain concealed beneath it; but few extend the hand to stay its quickening. Nay, when all is gone, mammon cries, more! until body and soul are crushed beneath the "more" of relentless self.

"Few know the intricacies of our system; perhaps 'twere well, lest our souls should not be safe within us. But, ah! my conscience chides me here. And betwixt those feelings which once saw all things right, but now through necessity beholds their grossest wrongs, comes the pain of self-condemnation. It is a condemnation haunting me unto death. Had I been ignorant of Clotilda's history, the fiendish deed of those who wronged her in her childhood had not now hung like a loathsome pestilence around my very garments. That which the heart rebukes cannot be concealed; but we must be obedient to the will that directs all things;—and if it be that we remain blind in despotism until misfortune opens our eyes, let the cause of the calamity be charged to those it belongs to," he concludes; and then, after a few minutes' silence, he lights his taper, and sets it upon the table. His care-worn countenance pales with melancholy; his hair has whitened with tribulation; his demeanour denotes a man of tender sensibility fast sinking into a physical wreck. A well-soiled book lies on the table, beside which he takes his seat; he turns its pages over and over carelessly, as if it were an indifferent amusement to wile away the time. "They cannot enslave affection, nor can they confine it within prison walls," he mutters. He has proof in the faithfulness of Daddy, his old slave. And as he contemplates, the words "she will be more than welcome to-night," escape his lips. Simultaneously a gentle tapping is heard at the door. Slowly it opens, and the figure of an old negro, bearing a basket on his arm, enters. He is followed by the slender and graceful form of Franconia, who approaches her uncle, hand extended, salutes him with a kiss, seats herself at his side, says he must not be sad. Then she silently gazes upon him for a few moments, as if touched by his troubles, while the negro, having spread the contents of the basket upon the chest, makes a humble bow, wishes mas'r and missus good night, and withdraws. "There, uncle," she says, laying her hand gently on his arm, "I didn't forget you, did I?" She couples the word with a smile-a smile so sweet, so expressive of her soul's goodness. "You are dear to me, uncle; yes, as dear as a father. How could I forget that you have been a father to me? I have brought these little things to make you comfortable,"-she points to the edibles on the chest-"and I wish I were not tied to a slave, uncle, for then I could do more. Twice, since my marriage to M'Carstrow, have I had to protect myself from his ruffianism."

"From his ruffianism!" interrupts Marston, quickly: "Can it be, my child, that even a ruffian would dare exhibit his vileness toward you?"

"Even toward me, uncle. With reluctance I married him, and my only regret is, that a slave's fate had not been mine ere the fruits of that day fell upon me. Women like me make a feeble defence in the world; and bad husbands are the shame of their sex," she returns, her eyes brightening with animation, as she endeavours to calm the excitement her remarks have given rise to: "Don't, pray don't mind it, uncle," she concludes.

"Such news had been anticipated; but I was cautious not to"—

"Never mind," she interrupts, suddenly coiling her delicate arm round his neck, and impressing a kiss on his care-worn cheek. "Let us forget these things; they are but the fruits of weak nature. It were better to bear up under trouble than yield to trouble's burdens: better far. Who knows but that it is all for the best?" She rises, and, with seeming cheerfulness, proceeds to spread the little table with the refreshing tokens of her friendship. Yielding to necessity, the table is spread, and they sit down, with an appearance of domestic quietness touchingly humble.

"There is some pleasure, after all, in having a quiet spot where we can sit down and forget our cares. Perhaps (all said and done) a man may call himself prince of his own garret, when he can forget all beyond it," says Marston affected to tears by Franconia's womanly resignation.

"Yes," returns Franconia, joyously, "it's a consolation to know that we have people among us much worse off than we are. I confess, though, I feel uneasy about our old slaves. Slavery's wrong, uncle; and it's when one's reduced to such extremes as are presented in this uninviting garret that we realise it the more forcibly. It gives the poor wretches no chance of bettering their condition; and if one exhibits ever so much talent over the other, there is no chance left him to improve it. It is no recompense to the slave that his talent only increases the price of the article to be sold. Look what Harry would have been had he enjoyed freedom. Uncle, we forget our best interests while pondering over the security of a bad system. Would it not be better to cultivate the slave's affections, rather than oppress his feelings?" Franconia has their cause at heart-forgets her own. She is far removed from the cold speculations of the south; she is free from mercenary motives; unstained by that principle of logic which recognises only the man merchandise. No will hath she to contrive ingenious apologies for the wrongs inflicted upon a fallen race. Her words spring from the purest sentiment of the soul; they contain a smarting rebuke of Marston's former misdoings: but he cannot resent it, nor can he turn the tide of his troubles against her noble generosity.

They had eaten their humble supper of meats and bread, and coffee, when Franconia hears a rap at the lower entrance, leading into the street. Bearing the taper in her hand, she descends the stairs quickly, and, opening the door, recognises the smiling face of Daddy Bob. Daddy greets her as if he were surcharged with the very best news for old mas'r and missus. He laughs in the exuberance of his simplicity, and, with an air of fondness that would better become a child, says, "Lor', young missus, how glad old Bob is to see ye! Seems like long time since old man see'd Miss Frankone look so spry. Got dat badge." The old man shows her his badge, exultingly. "Missus, nobody know whose nigger I'm's, and old Bob arns a right smart heap o' money to make mas'r comfortable." The old slave never for once thinks of his own infirmities; no, his attachment for master soars above every thing else; he thinks only in what way he can relieve his necessities. Honest, faithful, and affectionate, the associations of the past are uppermost in his mind; he forgets his slavery in his love for master and the old plantation. Readily would he lay down his life, could he, by so doing, lighten the troubles he instinctively sees in the changes of master's position. The old plantation and its people have been sold; and he, being among the separated from earth's chosen, must save his infirm body lest some man sell him for the worth thereof. Bob's face is white with beard, and his coarse garments are much worn and ragged; but there is something pleasing in the familiarity with which Franconia accepts his brawny hand. How free from that cold advance, that measured welcome, and that religious indifference, with which the would-be friend of the slave, at the north, too often accepts the black man's hand! There is something in the fervency with which she shakes his wrinkled hand that speaks of the goodness of the heart; something that touches the old slave's childlike nature. He smiles bashfully, and says, "Glad t' see ye, missus; dat I is: 'spishilly ven ye takes care on old mas'r." After receiving her salutation he follows her to the chamber, across which he hastens to receive a welcome from old mas'r. Marston warmly receives his hand, and motions him to be seated on the chest near the fire-place. Bob takes his seat, keeping his eye on mas'r the while. "Neber mind, mas'r," he says, "Big Mas'r above be better dan Buckra. Da'h is somefin' what Buckra no sell from ye, dat's a good heart. If old mas'r on'y keeps up he spirit, de Lor' 'll carry un throu' 'e triblation," he continues; and, after watching his master a few minutes, returns to Franconia, and resumes his jargon.

Franconia is the same fair creature Bob watched over when she visited the plantation: her countenance wears the same air of freshness and frankness; her words are of the same gentleness; she seems as solicitous of his comfort as before. And yet a shadow of sadness shrouds that vivacity which had made her the welcome guest of the old slaves. He cannot resist those expressions which are ever ready to lisp forth from the negro when his feelings are excited. "Lor, missus, how old Bob's heart feels! Hah, ah! yah, yah! Looks so good, and reminds old Bob how e' look down on dah Astley, yander. But, dah somefin in dat ar face what make old nigger like I know missus don't feel just right," he exclaims.

The kind woman reads his thoughts in the glowing simplicity of his wrinkled face. "It has been said that a dog was our last friend, Bob: I now think a slave should have been added. Don't you think so, uncle?" she enquires, looking at Marston, and, again taking the old slave by the hand, awaits the reply.

"We rarely appreciate their friendship until it be too late to reward it," he replies, with an attempt to smile.

"True, true! but the world is full of ingratitude,—very amiable ingratitude. Never mind, Daddy; you must now tell me all about your affairs, and what has happened since the night you surprised me at our house; and you must tell me how you escaped M'Carstrow on the morning of the disturbance," she enjoins. And while Bob relates his story Franconia prepares his supper. Some cold ham, bread, and coffee, are soon spread out before him. He will remove them to the chest, near the fire-place. "Why, Missus Frankone," he says, "ye sees how I'se so old now dat nobody tink I'se werf ownin; and so nobody axes old Bob whose nigger he is. An't prime nigger, now; but den a' good fo' work some, and get cash, so t' help old mas'r yander (Bob points to old master). Likes t' make old master feel not so bad."

"Yes," rejoins Marston, "Bob's good to me. He makes his sleeping apartments, when he comes, at the foot of my bed, and shares his earnings with me every Saturday night. He's like an old clock that can keep time as well as a new one, only wind it up with care."

"Dat I is!" says Daddy, with an exulting nod of the head, as he, to his own surprise, lets fall his cup. It was only the negro's forgetfulness in the moment of excitement. Giving a wistful look at Franconia, he commences picking up the pieces, and drawing his week's earnings from a side pocket of his jacket.

"Eat your supper, Daddy; never mind your money now" says Franconia, laughing heartily: at which Bob regains confidence and resumes his supper, keeping a watchful eye upon his old master the while. Every now and then he will pause, cant his ear, and shake his head, as if drinking in the tenour of the conversation between Franconia and her uncle. Having concluded, he pulls out his money and spreads it upon the chest. "Old Bob work hard fo' dat!" he says, with emphasis, spreading a five-dollar bill and two dollars and fifty cents in silver into divisions. "Dah!" he ejaculates, "dat old mas'r share, and dis is dis child's." The old man looks proudly upon the coin, and feels he is not so worthless, after all. "Now! who say old Bob aint werf nofin?" he concludes, getting up, putting his share into his pocket, and then, as if unobserved, slipping the balance into Marston's. This done, he goes to the window, affects to be looking out, and then resuming his seat upon the chest, commences humming a familiar plantation tune, as if his pious feelings had been superseded by the recollection of past scenes.

"What, Daddy,—singing songs?" interrupts Franconia, looking at him enquiringly. He stops as suddenly as he commenced, exchanges an expressive look, and fain would question her sincerity.

"Didn't mean 'um, missus," he returns, after a moment's hesitation, "didn't mean 'um. Was thinkin 'bout somefin back'ards; down old plantation times."

"You had better forget them times, Bob."

"Buckra won't sell dis old nigger,—will he, Miss Frankone?" he enquires, resuming his wonted simplicity.

"Sell you, Bob? You're a funny old man. Don't think your old half-worn-out bones are going to save you. Money's the word: they'll sell anything that will produce it,—dried up of age are no exceptions. Keep out of Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy's way: whenever you hear him singing, 'I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall come,' as he always does,—run! He lives on the sale of infirmity, and your old age would be a capital thing for the exercise of his genius. He will put you through a course of regeneration, take the wrinkles smooth out of your face, dye those old grey whiskers, and get a profit for his magic power of transposing the age of negro property," she replied, gravely, while Bob stares at her as if doubting his own security.

"Why, missus!" he interposes, his face glowing with astonishment; "Buckra don't be so smart dat he make old nigger young, be he?"

"Traders can do anything with niggers that have got money in them, as they say. Our distinguished people are sensitive of the crime, but excuse themselves with apologies they cannot make cover the shame."

"Franke!" interrupts Marston, "spare the negro's feelings,—it may have a bad effect." He touches her on the arm, and knits his brows in caution.

"How strange, to think that bad influence could come of such an inoffensive old man! Truth, I know and feel, is powerfully painful when brought home to the doors of our best people,—it cuts deep when told in broad letters; but they make the matter worse by attempting to enshrine the stains with their chivalry. We are a wondrous people, uncle, and the world is just finding it out, to our shame. We may find it out ourselves, by and by; perhaps pay the penalty with sorrow. We look upon negroes as if they were dropped down from some unaccountable origin,—intended to raise the world's cotton, rice, and sugar, but never to get above the menial sphere we have conditioned for them. Uncle, there is a mistake somewhere,—a mistake sadly at variance with our democratic professions. Democracy needs to reclaim its all-claiming principles of right and justice for the down-trodden. And yet, while the negro generously submits to serve us, we look upon him as an auspicious innovator, who never could have been born to enjoy manhood, and was subjected to bear a black face because God had marked him for servitude. Did God found an aristocracy of colour, or make men to be governed by their distinctive qualifications of colour relationship?" says Franconia, her face resuming a flush of agitation. Touching Marston on the arm with the fore-finger of her right hand, and giving a glance at Bob, who listens attentively to the theme of conversation, she continues: "Say no more of bad influence coming of slaves, when the corruptest examples are set by those who hold them as such,—who crash their hopes, blot out their mental faculties, and turn their bodies into licentious merchandise that they may profit by its degradation! Show me the humblest slave on your plantation, and, in comparison with the slave-dealer, I will prove him a nobleman of God's kind,—of God's image: his simple nature will be his clean passport into heaven. The Father of Mercy will receive him there; he will forgive the crimes enforced upon him by man; and that dark body on earth will be recompensed in a world of light,—it will shine with the brighter spirits of that realm of justice and love. Earth may bring the slavetrader bounties; but heaven will reject the foul offering." The good woman unfolds the tender emotions of her heart, as only woman can.

Bob listens, as if taking a deep interest in the force and earnestness of young missus's language. He is swayed by her pathos, and at length interposes his word.

"Nigger ain't so good as white man" (he shakes his head, philosophically). "White man sharp; puzzle nigger to find out what 'e don, know ven 'e mind t'." Thus saying, he takes a small hymn- book from his pocket, and, Franconia setting the light beside him, commences reading to himself by its dim glare.

"Well! now, uncle, it's getting late, and I've a good way to go, and the night's stormy; so I must prepare for home." Franconia gets up, and evinces signs of withdrawing. She walks across the little chamber three or four times, looks out of the window, strains her sight into the gloomy prospect, and then, as if reluctant to leave her uncle, again takes a seat by his side. Gently laying her left hand upon his shoulder, she makes an effort at pleasantry, tells him to keep up his resolution-to be of good cheer.

"Remember, uncle," she says, calmly, "they tell us it is no disgrace to be poor,—no shame to work to live; and yet poor people are treated as criminals. For my own part, I would rather be poor and happy than rich with a base husband; I have lived in New England, know how to appreciate its domestic happiness. It was there Puritanism founded true American liberty.—Puritanism yet lives, and may be driven to action; but we must resign ourselves to the will of an all-wise Providence." Thus concluding, she makes another attempt to withdraw.

"You must not leave me yet!" says Marston, grasping her hand firmly in his. "Franke, I cannot part with you until I have disclosed what I have been summoning resolution to suppress. I know your attachment, Franconia; you have been more than dear to me. You have known my feelings,—what they have already had to undergo." He pauses.

"Speak it, uncle, speak it! Keep nothing from me, nor make secrets in fear of my feelings. Speak out,—I may relieve you!" she interrupts, nervously: and again encircling her arm round his neck, waits his reply, in breathless suspense.

He falters for a moment, and then endeavours to regain his usual coolness. "To-morrow, Franconia," he half mutters out, "to-morrow, you may find me not so well situated," (here tears are seen trickling down his cheeks) "and in a place where it will not become your delicate nature to visit me."

"Nay, uncle!" she stops him there; "I will visit you wherever you may be-in a castle or a prison."

The word prison has touched the tender chord upon which all his troubles are strung. He sobs audibly; but they are only sobs of regret, for which there is no recompense in this late hour. "And would you follow me to a prison, Franconia?" he enquires, throwing his arms about her neck, kissing her pure cheek with the fondness of a father.

"Yea, and share your sorrows within its cold walls. Do not yield to melancholy, uncle,—you have friends left: if not, heaven will prepare a place of rest for you; heaven shields the unfortunate at last," rejoins the good woman, the pearly tears brightening in mutual sympathy.

"To-morrow, my child, you will find me the unhappy tenant of those walls where man's discomfiture is complete."

"Nay, uncle, nay! you are only allowing your melancholy forebodings to get the better of you. Such men as Graspum-men who have stripped families of their all-might take away your property, and leave you as they have left my poor parents; but no one would be so heartless as to drive you to the extreme of imprisonment. It is a foolish result at best." Franconia's voice falters; she looks more and more intently in her uncle's face, struggles to suppress her rising emotions. She knows his frankness, she feels the pain of his position; but, though the dreadful extreme seems scarcely possible, there is that in his face conveying strong evidence of the truth of his remark.

"Do not weep, Franconia; spare your tears for a more worthy object: such trials have been borne by better men than I. I am but the merchandise of my creditors. There is, however, one thing which haunts me to grief; could I have saved my children, the pain of my position had been slight indeed."

"Speak not of them, uncle," Franconia interrupts, "you cannot feel the bitterness of their lot more than myself. I have saved a mother, but have failed to execute my plan of saving them; and my heart throbs with pain when I think that now it is beyond my power. Let me not attempt to again excite in your bosom feelings which must ever be harassing, for the evil only can work its destruction. To clip the poisoning branches and not uproot the succouring trunk, is like casting pearls into the waste of time. My heart will ever be with the destinies of those children, my feelings bound in unison with theirs; our hopes are the same, and if fortune should smile on me in times to come I will keep my word-I will snatch them from the devouring element of slavery."

"Stop, my child!" speaks Marston, earnestly: "Remember you can do little against the strong arm of the law, and still stronger arm of public opinion. Lay aside your hopes of rescuing those children, Franconia, and remember that while I am in prison I am the property of my creditors, subject to their falsely conceived notions of my affairs," he continues. "I cannot now make amends to the law of nature," he adds, burying his face in his hand, weeping a child's tears.

Franconia looks solicitously upon her uncle, as he sorrows. She would dry her tears to save his throbbing heart. Her noble generosity and disinterestedness have carried her through many trials since her marriage, but it fails to nerve her longer. Her's is a single-hearted sincerity, dispensing its goodness for the benefit of the needy; she suppresses her own troubles that she may administer consolation to others. "The affection that refuses to follow misfortune to its lowest step is weak indeed. If you go to prison, Franconia will follow you there," she says, with touching pathos, her musical voice adding strength to the resolution. Blended with that soft angelic expression her eyes give forth, her calm dignity and inspiring nobleness show how firm is that principle of her nature never to abandon her old friend.

The old negro, who had seemed absorbed in his sympathetic reflections, gazes steadfastly at his old master, until his emotions spring forth in kindest solicitude. Resistance is beyond his power. "Neber mind, old mas'r," (he speaks in a devoted tone) "dar's better days comin, bof fo' old Bob and mas'r. Tink 'um sees de day when de old plantation jus so 't was wid mas'r and da' old folks." Concluding in a subdued voice, he approaches Franconia, and seats himself, book in hand, on the floor at her feet. Moved by his earnestness, she lays her hand playfully upon his head, saying: "Here is our truest friend, uncle!"

"My own heart lubs Miss Frankone more den eber," he whispers in return. How pure, how holy, is the simple recompense! It is nature's only offering, all the slave can give; and he gives it in the bounty of his soul.

Marston's grief having subsided, he attempts to soothe Franconia's feelings, by affecting an air of indifference. "What need I care, after all? my resolution should be above it," he says, thrusting his right hand into his breast pocket, and drawing out a folded paper, which he throws upon the little table, and says, "There, Franconia, my child! that contains the climax of my unlamented misfortunes; read it: it will show you where my next abode will be-I may be at peace there; and there is consolation at being at peace, even in a cell." He passes the paper into her hand.

With an expression of surprise she opens it, and glances over its contents; then reads it word by word. "Do they expect to get something from nothing?" she says, sarcastically. "It is one of those soothsayers so valuable to men whose feelings are only with money-to men who forget they cannot carry money to the graves; and that no tribute is demanded on either road leading to the last abode of man."

"Stop there, my child! stop!" interrupts Marston. "I have given them all, 'tis true; but suspicion is my persecutor-suspicion, and trying to be a father to my own children!"

"It is, indeed, a misfortune to be a father under such circumstances, in such an atmosphere!" the good woman exclaims, clasping her hands and looking upward, as if imploring the forgiveness of Heaven. Tremblingly she held the paper in her hand, until it fell upon the floor, as she, overcome, swooned in her uncle's arms.

She swooned! yes, she swooned. That friend upon whom her affections had been concentrated was a prisoner. The paper was a bail writ, demanding the body of the accused. The officer serving had been kind enough to allow Marston his parole of honour until the next morning. He granted this in accordance with Marston's request, that by the lenity he might see Daddy Bob and Franconia once more.

Lifting Franconia in his arms, her hair falling loosely down, Marston lays her gently on the cot, and commences bathing her temples. He has nothing but water to bathe them with,—nothing but poverty's liquid. The old negro, frightened at the sudden change that has come over his young missus, falls to rubbing and kissing her hands,—he has no other aid to lend. Marston has drawn his chair beside her, sits down upon it, unbuttons her stomacher, and continues bathing and chafing her temples. How gently heaves that bosom so full of fondness, how marble-like those features, how pallid but touchingly beautiful that face! Love, affection, and tenderness, there repose so calmly! All that once gave out so much hope, so much joy, now withers before the blighting sting of misfortune. "Poor child, how fondly she loves me!" says Marston, placing his right arm under her head, and raising it gently. The motion quickens her senses-she speaks; he kisses her pallid cheek-kisses and kisses it. "Is it you uncle?" she whispers. She has opened her eyes, stares at Marston, then wildly along the ceiling. "Yes, I'm in uncle's arms; how good!" she continues, as if fatigued. Reclining back on the pillow, she again rests her head upon his arm. "I am at the mansion-how pleasant; let me rest, uncle; let me rest. Send aunt Rachel to me." She raises her right hand and lays her arms about Marston's neck, as anxiously he leans over her. How dear are the associations of that old mansion! how sweet the thought of home! how uppermost in her wandering mind the remembrance of those happy days!